Echo in September
by Lilah Faire
Summary: Bella can't quite put her finger on what it is about him that is familiar, at least not until the end. Romance, Mystery, Supernatural, Angst
1. Chapter 1

I am ten the first time I see him.

It is my birthday. Later I would remember this particular day as a marvelous event, but at the time it is only ordinary. There is white cake with blue rosettes, games of hide and seek, and brightly colored ribbons and wrappings. Decorations are bed sheets hanging from clotheslines so if and when the wind blows there is a sense of enchantment for anyone who is young and impressionable. I did not appreciate the floral-patterned walls billowing lazily this night – thus fulfilling their purpose to obscure my opponents in a rich game of tag – as much as I now wish that I had.

My mother has always begun each of my parties at precisely 7:42 p.m., two minutes after the time of my birth, and, typically from year to year, at dusk. She lights a sparkler for everyone in attendance, and instead of taking one for myself I lie in the center of the yard to watch the show; they are shooting stars here on earth.

I feel the vibrations from the guests running around, and I am not afraid that if they come too close I might be burned from a spark. I want them to come closer yet I cannot explain why. Perhaps I would like to be thrown into my own imagination.

It is then that he comes into view.

He is upside down to me, but it's easy to see that his face is round with youth. He wears a white undershirt and dark shorts and I think he must be cold, because I am in my white cotton dress which does not protect me from the chill of the ground.

"Hello," I say. "Thank you for coming to my party."

"Why are you lying there?"

"I'm watching the stars fall."

My explanation does not impress him. "My aunt Esme made me come."

"Then I'll thank her."

Edward walks away – I find out his name after my party has ended – and takes a sparkler from my mother.

If I offended him I didn't mean to. He doesn't seem angry. He seems lost.

.

.

.

It is October now. A Sunday. My father rakes leaves in the front yard. My grandmother and mother are busy cooking dinner. The aroma of beef stew and homemade bread warms our entire house, and I think about dressing to go outside and jumping into a pile of leaves if for no other reason than to bother my father, but I don't. I stare out my window. There is a feeling of stillness that settles in my belly I cannot explain. _Wait_, it tells me. My memories are fuzzy, but I am certain it is this particular feeling that purposely renders me motionless, even as Eleanor nips my calf, right through my pant leg.

A trickle of warm blood runs down to my ankle and I cannot turn my focus away from a small figure coming down our street. Eleanor hops onto the windowsill, purring, her rump high and her tail higher.

Edward hands my father a book, and then looks up at me. My father and Carlisle Cullen have shared books with one another for some time. They famously discuss characters, all of whom have bored me to tears, well into the night over several beers. It occurs to me that although the relationship between my father and Mr. Cullen has been ongoing for years, I do not recall anyone ever mentioning a nephew.

My father hands the book back to Edward then nods toward our house. In a few moments, Edward is in my bedroom.

I am ten years old and unconcerned with my appearance, though I am dressed appropriately enough for a boy to be in my room. But he is in _my_ room so I feel it is all right to ask things I've wondered about for the past three weeks. We have not become friends, his birthday present for me making this fact obvious. I have never liked the color pink let alone fancy hair clips and haven't had the slightest inclination to start now.

"Why don't I see you in school?" I ask.

Edward rubs his temple with the heel of his hand. "I skipped a grade so we don't go to the same school."

His answer deflates my curiosity. He's smarter than me, and probably does not have the time or desire to entertain a girl who is still in elementary school. I am sure he is mature, too, and has interests that surpass board games and cartoons, like girls.

This makes me nervous.

He points to my floor. "Is that blood?"

There are only specks of red dotting the floor, but I suppose it's the larger splotch near my foot he is concerned about. At the time, I didn't realize that Eleanor's teeth went so deep.

"My cat was trying to get my attention," I explain. All I can think is that my mother is going to kill me, not about the boy who stands in my doorway with fidgety hands.

"Does it hurt?" He asks, and I'm pressing my pant leg against my calf to stop further bleeding even though I don't know if I still am.

"No, it's fine. Did you want something?"

"I don't know," he says.

I straighten. "You're kind of strange." I immediately regret saying this to him, and I am too mortified by my juvenile behavior to apologize. I should be paying attention to every detail, like the freckles across his nose and the pudge of his cheeks.

I should be burning every detail into memory.

Edward is not bothered, though. He laughs and says that he'd like to be my friend.

Poor choice of birthday presents aside, we do, in fact, become friends.

That winter it snows for days. Reportedly, as much as thirty-two inches have fallen overall, a record year. Branches have snapped off trees from the weight of snow, and at night it is so quiet it is like a dream. Our electricity has flickered off a couple times, and I was frightened we all might freeze to death so my father taught me how to keep the fire going once he and my mother had gone back to work. I did not disappoint as proven by the constant stream of smoke erupting from our chimney.

Although my grandmother has enlisted me to help her clean corners of the house that no one will ever see, I don't mind. It's been a full week without school and that is enough.

Edward has trudged through tall drifts to come see me almost daily. We stay outside until our fingers and toes are numb, and the pieces of hair that stick out from underneath our hats are matted with snow. As soon as we are warmed again from the fire I boast about, poking the ash off burnt wood and setting another log ablaze, as if I have done it a million times, we are back outside.

I believe my grandmother prefers the quiet. She does not mention frostbite or colds or staying away from the pond, she only tells me and Edward to be back before the sun can no longer be seen.

Despite her one rule, we are at the edge of the pond when in the dimming late afternoon everything looks like it could be something else.

Skeleton trees surround us and there is promise in the icy air that more snow is coming. I don't ever want it to end.

My nose is running. I am too embarrassed to openly wipe it, even if Edward's nose is running too and he doesn't have an issue using his gloves or the arm of his coat. Instead, I cover my mouth with my mittened hands so it looks as though I am flirting, when really I am dabbing my nostrils.

But I am flirting. I have never done this with a boy and the way that Edward looks at me as he places one foot on the ice and keeps the other on the ground, it is easy, natural. There is mischief in his eyes and his cheeks are bright from cold, or maybe warm because of me. I am close to him. I don't remember taking a step.

Edward tilts his head and smiles and then he kisses my cheek. I am too stunned to react. I don't follow him to the center of the pond, and he does not beckon me to do so.

There are seconds that pass by – long, quiet, magical seconds as my heart gallops and my insides tingle and I am filled with utter joy. It is life altering because I have felt that moment when my life has taken that turn. All this has occurred before the first crack sounds. And then, even faster than that magic, the ice splinters beneath his feet, rocketing out before I can scream his name. And that magic is swallowed by fear when the ice shatters and he is sucked down into the water.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes a long time before I am able to forgive my mother for making me go back to school. She and my father had given me "long enough" and decided it was time.

Earth and sky have thawed but I have not. I am sleepwalking during waking hours as my nightmares of Edward's funeral hinder any rest.

When I notice others, classmates, teachers, I am met with pity and sometimes anger and for this I am even more upset with my mother.

I had never been a girl, in the simplest sense of the word. I had never fallen victim to silliness and affairs of the heart, and I believe this to be true, it does not matter what age the girl. Love is love is love. But for a moment I had become swept away and if I had not Edward would not have drowned.

I understand the anger radiating from his friends. His aunt and uncle, too, trying to hide it.

It was there. Cool voices and hollow touches are the only way they can express the blame that I deserve. I should have kept my wits about me and demanded he not step on that ice. I am angry with myself and I don't think that will ever change.

I loved Edward.

_Love_ Edward.


	3. Chapter 3

Rosalie Hale is every man's dream. She is buxom, blonde, has naturally pouty lips, and when she looks at you, whether you are man or woman, you wonder what it would be like to be the object of her affection. She is a calendar pin-up girl, the Miss July that stays on the wall of an auto shop no matter what month it is.

I have never been jealous of Rosalie, having always been satisfied with my lot: dark hair, matching dark eyes, a B cup breast size. I quite enjoyed being the second one noticed in any room as the pressure to live up to undue expectations fell not upon my shoulders, but onto hers. Rosalie did not seem to mind.

When we met at the welcome mixer during our first year at college our friendship was instantaneous. Rosalie was approached by a wolfish boy who refused to take no for an answer. I watched the entire scene unfold from where I was standing, next to the hors d'oeuvres table holding a china plate full of canapés. I have always loved to eat, and had it not been for the boy and his lecherous ways, I probably would have remained there perfectly content, ending the night by sucking chocolate off my thumb from a delectable éclair. As it was, however, the exchange between Rosalie and the boy surpassed my desire to fill my belly with treats.

I watched his left hand skim her shoulder then wrap end of her hair around his finger. Giving him false hope, Rosalie did not stop him when his hand went to her waist. He whispered something in her ear and then the resonance of his yelp as she twisted his hand the way a hand should never be twisted sent chills down my spine.

He scampered off to the infirmary, I assumed, clutching his hand to his chest. It was then Rosalie and I made eye contact and I offered to buy her a drink.

Four years passed, we graduated from college, and with our nursing degrees and unbreakable friendship we landed jobs at the nearby hospital. It was easy finding an apartment to share, too. Although, the pleas from my mother and father to return to my hometown weighed a little on my decision, and I did miss them terribly, I was much happier in a city setting.

I am reinserting an I.V. into Mr. Jackson's horribly weak vein when Rosalie bustles into his room. Mr. Jackson, who is missing several of his teeth, smiles wide when she enters. He is eighty-two and will live out his last days in my unit, so every one of his gummy smiles is a treasure.

"Did you bring me any vanilla, Rosalie?" Mr. Jackson asks. "The tapioca here tastes like shit."

I laugh and Rosalie spectacularly produces a container of vanilla pudding and a spoon from her pocket. She peels off the lid then sits on the edge of his bed. "Would I ever disappoint you, Mr. Jackson?" she says, feeding him tiny spoonfuls.

"You and Bella are my girls," he replies. "If you ain't got nothing else to do, sit with me a while?"

Rosalie glances up at me. She nods toward my watch – it is nearly 7:40 p.m.

She says, "Sure we will, but Bella has to make a quick call to her mother. Did you know today's her birthday?"

Mr. Jackson tilts his head. "That so? Well now happy birthday, young lady." He pauses to take another spoonful of pudding. "You doing anything special? Anyone lucky enough to take you out? If I didn't have these tubes stuck in my arms I would take you out. Dancing maybe."

"Thank you, Mr. Jackson. No one this year, and it really is too bad you can't be my date, because I do love to dance."

"You'd better be a good dancer, Mr. Jackson, 'cause Bella here's got two left feet." I pretend to scoff at her, and he chuckles which turns into a slight coughing fit. Rosalie dabs his mouth with a napkin. "Go call your mom. Me and Mr. Jackson are going to finish up this pudding."

With little privacy at the nurse's station as well as the warning looks I receive from our head nurse for making a long distance telephone call, my conversation with my mother is rather stilted. But I am grateful, really. I am twenty-three with no prospects of marriage, happily, and if she had it her way, I would be not only married but pregnant by now.

"Have you opened the package your father and I sent?"

"I have, but sadly, I won't be able to light a sparkler since I'm working tonight."

Through the static, I hear her tsk. "Do it when you get home then. It's tradition."

I think just like our annually arranged phone calls that have replaced birthday parties are tradition now, too. "I will. Thank you for the scarf. You knitted it?"

"I did. Do you like the color? It's not too racy, is it? I thought with winter around the corner you might need it."

"It's perfect. Listen, I really have to run. Can I call you this weekend? Rosalie's cousin is coming into town for a visit so we'll be busy showing him around the next couple of days."

"Cousin? Is he single?"

"Mom."

"Is he?"

"I haven't met him and I haven't asked…but I assume he is. That doesn't mean—"

"Doesn't mean he's husband material. Doesn't mean he isn't, either."

My mother is exhausting. Before she can ask where he is staying I remind her that I have to get back to work. "Give Daddy a kiss for me, all right?"

Rosalie's cousin will be sleeping on our couch. My mother is old fashioned, and even though I am an adult one hundred miles away from being underneath her watchful eye there is no need to delve into discussions about how times have changed since she was my age.

It is uneventful the remainder of our shift, and except for checking patients' vitals one final time, Rosalie and I spend our last couple hours with Mr. Jackson.

He proves to be quiet company, going in and out of sleep, but before we leave for the night we rouse him just enough for him to know that we will see him tomorrow.

An unexpected cold wind blows against us as we walk the three blocks to our apartment building. I wrap my birthday present around my neck a little tighter. We are almost there, feet from our stoop, when Rosalie grabs my arm and bounces on her toes.

"Masen!" She runs toward the man who stands then begins to walk toward us. She pulls me after her. Rosalie drops my hand to envelop him in a familiar and excited hug. "You're not supposed to be here until tomorrow," she says. She grabs my hand again, and the three of us stand in the glow of the streetlamp. "This is my roommate and best friend, Bella. Bella, this is my cousin, Masen."

The first thing I notice about him are his eyes, green and trancelike, almost hidden beneath his long hair. He is tall and thin and wears possibly a day's worth of stubble. His brows are heavy and his lips are pouty, not like his cousin's but in a manly way they are full. Kissable. And then I notice I have yet to respond to him saying hello as he holds out his hand in midair, waiting to shake mine.

"Hello. Sorry. Hi." I am a babbling fool. "Sorry."

Rosalie gives me a look. "Anyway, what are you doing here?"

Masen, smiling, slowly peels his eyes from mine to answer Rosalie. "Is this all right? I caught an earlier flight."

"Of course!" she says. "And you can stay as long as you like." Rosalie catches herself, adding the condition that only if it's okay with me.

"Any cousin of Rosalie's is a cousin of mine?" But that is not what I mean at all.

He is behind me as we walk into our building, his duffle bag in one hand and a camera bag in the other. I look up over my shoulder at him. He is much closer than I realized.

"Hi again," Masen says quietly.

It's a Tuesday and he's to stay through Friday and I am reasonably sure that I am in a heap of trouble.

.

.

.

Sitting on the floor, gathered around the coffee table that Rosalie and I purchased from a second-hand shop, the three of us are drunk on wine. We are in tears, listening to Masen's stories of the mishaps he encountered during his travels in Istanbul because of his rudimentary knowledge of the Turkish language.

Masen offers me the box of Cracker Jack. It's the best thing we have to go with the wine. The only thing, really, as Rosalie and myself never were decent planners, and we are on a budget. There are days I actually miss college cafeteria food.

"Yeah, so, eventually I figured out the basics, like where to find a bathroom, but by the time I was confident enough to carry on a conversation with someone, albeit heavily complemented with hand gestures, I was ready to go somewhere else," he says.

"Masen's been all over the world," Rosalie says.

"So I've gathered. Where's your favorite place?"

He stares at me; my head is fuzzy.

"Don't know. I am enjoying Chicago so far, though," Masen answers, and I blush. He leans to the side of the couch, fishes out his camera bag from under his corduroy jacket and drags it to his lap.

He snaps a picture of me, and another, then another. I'm unable to move, even being blinded by the flash, I'm still. Rosalie is suddenly by my side, her arm, lazily draped across my shoulder, is heavy, and the side of her head knocks into mine.

Masen lowers his camera but Rosalie protests, wanting to document the occasion. Raising it back up, he says, "Smile, birthday girl."


End file.
